


Terms of Surrender

by Laylah



Category: Final Fantasy XII
Genre: Forced Incest, Gang Rape, Imperial Conflict - Freeform, M/M, Public Humiliation, Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-17
Updated: 2019-11-17
Packaged: 2021-02-07 14:34:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21459631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laylah/pseuds/Laylah
Summary: A timeline in which Rozarria triumphs, and Archadia's scions must submit.Larsa knows his history. This ritual of surrender is a vestige of an earlier, more barbarous age, when thatunmanningwould have been literal. He should be grateful that no such permanent brutality is called for by modern codes. This ordeal will do far less lasting harm.It's hard to keep telling himself that as he sees the soldiers closing in behind Vayne
Relationships: Larsa Ferrinas Solidor/Vayne Carudas Solidor, OMCs/Larsa Ferrinas Solidor, OMCs/Vayne Carudas Solidor
Comments: 7
Kudos: 53
Collections: Naughty List 2019





	Terms of Surrender

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Welsper](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Welsper/gifts).

_"Take me, not him!" Vayne insisted where he knelt on the marble, mouth bloodied, a blade at his throat. "I'm the heir! He's barely more than a boy."_

_Don't, Larsa wanted to say, afraid he could see what would happen, but too late:_

_"Brave," the Rozarrian general sneered. "Take them both."_

* * *

They're bent over pedestals on the front terrace of the palace, where statues of ancient emperors stood until the bombardment began. The broken stone digs into Larsa's belly and his wrists are shackled behind his back and both of those pains are easier to bear than the fact that his brother has been positioned opposite, facing him, where they'll both be able to see the other's mistreatment. Someone behind him pulls down his breeches and he tries not to react to the jostling, because there's an audience gathering in the square below to watch, but more importantly, Vayne can see his face. He doesn't want his brother to bear _his_ suffering in addition to his own.

The soldiers behind him are talking, low and entertained, conversational; Larsa has studied Rozarrian, of course, as a prince should, but they speak too fast for him to catch more than a word or two. He doesn't think he'd like anything they have to say.

The Rozarrian general strides up to the front of the terrace, passing between them, and the look on Vayne's face is such pure, trapped fury that Larsa wishes he could go to him. "People of Archades, rejoice!" the general calls, his voice resonant with magickal amplification. "The corrupt line of Solidor ends here, its power broken, its last scions unmanned."

Larsa knows his history. This ritual of surrender is a vestige of an earlier, more barbarous age, when that _unmanning_ would have been literal. He should be grateful that no such permanent brutality is called for by modern codes. This ordeal will do far less lasting harm.

It's hard to keep telling himself that as he sees the soldiers closing in behind Vayne, forbidding and faceless in their helms. He doesn't want to see this but it would feel cowardly to turn away, and instead he makes himself meet Vayne's eyes, trying to communicate that he loves his brother and has faith in him—

And that means he has to keep his own composure when a soldier's rough hands spread the cheeks of his ass and expose his hole. The man says something that makes his comrades laugh unpleasantly, then spits on Larsa's hole, making him flush even though he has no illusions about what will happen here.

On the other side of the terrace Vayne jerks forward, his hair falling in his face as the soldier behind him does what they're here to do. His mouth opens but if he makes a sound, it's not loud enough for Larsa to hear. It hurts to watch all the same, and Larsa catches himself pulling fruitlessly at his shackles as if he could reach out to offer comfort.

He feels blunt pressure at his entrance and barely has time to brace himself before it becomes a raw, burning stretch, a stranger's cock forcing him open. A raw sound of dismay rises in his throat but he won't open his mouth, trying to hold onto his dignity as much as he can. The man behind him wraps big hands around his hips for leverage and shoves in deeper, forcing the breath from Larsa's lungs at the strange and unwelcome fullness.

One of the other soldiers asks a question that Larsa doesn't catch; the man raping him answers, and he can pick out the word _hot_, the phrase _fill it up_. His cheeks heat at the resulting laughter and he squeezes his eyes shut, trying to find some scrap of composure he can cling to. His rapist draws back, uncomfortable friction against his too-stretched rim, and thrusts in again.

When he can bear to do it without tears, Larsa opens his eyes again, to look across to Vayne and demonstrate that he's yet unbroken. It was the right course; even at this distance, even with both of them suffering this humiliation, there's immediate relief in Vayne's face. He nods once, and there's a fierce pride in his face that gives Larsa strength.

Rape, Larsa decides, is entirely banal. It hurts, and being unable to defend himself is upsetting, but he refuses to give it more weight than that. The man behind him picks up his pace, rutting fast and single-minded like a beast. If this public spectacle is to be a symbolic defeat, then let it be _only_ a symbolic one. To be the son of an emperor—to be a _Solidor_—is to learn early and well that what one wants must always be bent in service of what is necessary. For the sake of ending this war, for the sake of their survival, this foreign soldier using his body and spilling seed inside him is unfortunately necessary.

He has a brief moment of near reprieve when that first man finishes and pulls out. His raw flesh stings but at least he's free of the sense of bodily invasion, the unwelcome pressure of that cock. In the banter of the soldiers jostling for the next turn he can pick out phrases from his lessons on cavalry, the vocabulary for mounting an animal, for breaking it to ride.

The winner of that shoving match steps up behind him, stiff cock rubbing the crack of his ass. Larsa reminds himself to endure, to be calm, to let them hurt his brother by hurting him. Then the man pushes it in and Larsa's whole body flinches, his self-discipline failing him in the face of the instinctive drive to get away. It feels bigger than the first, stretching him wider when he's already sore, testing his resolve.

But Vayne can still see him. Larsa makes himself breathe through the pain, lift his hips toward the unwelcome fullness, quell the resistance that would do him no good today. All he can do right now is wait this ritual out, and so he will.

One cock is much like another, it turns out, after enough of them have made their demands in sequence. By the fifth or sixth this is nothing more than an endurance test. Larsa's shoulders ache from having his hands shackled behind him. His ribs and hips feel bruised from being pushed repeatedly into the stone. His hole is so raw and tender it feels as though he'll never sit comfortably again, even though each man's seed slicks the way a little more for the one who follows. It drips from him in a slow sticky trickle whenever one of the soldiers wants to hold him spread to admire how hard-used he's been before plunging in to contribute.

The worst of it is still how certain he is that Vayne is being treated worse. He was the heir. He was old enough to command an army. The soldiers are rough with him as though they have personal debts to settle, and there are enough ill-tempered men in the audience to raise a cheer if he visibly flinches or cries out. _I love you_, Larsa mouths when he can catch Vayne's eye. It's not enough but it's all he has to offer.

Finally, as the sun is slipping below the rooftops on the far side of the plaza, the latest man to abuse him finishes and isn't immediately replaced. Is it over? Larsa tries not to hope, but when Vayne's tormentors haul him up off the pedestal and begin dragging him closer, his heart leaps. Vayne stumbles in the soldiers' grip, limping, his wrists still shackled and his breeches still around his thighs. He struggles to hold himself with dignity when he reaches Larsa, and the Rozarrian general walks up to them.

"Vayne Carudas Solidor," the general says. Politely. As if this were an ordinary negotiation. "The terms of the treaty are nearly complete. There is but one final act we require."

"Name it, then," Vayne answers. "Am I to take your cock?"

"No." Still that smooth tone. "Your brother is to take yours."

Vayne recoils. "No," he says. "Do not ask that of me. Your victory is complete, your authority undeniable. Please, do not force any more indignity on Larsa."

The general shakes his head. "Are you refusing the terms of surrender? After coming this far?"

"_Please_," Vayne says again.

"Vayne." Larsa struggles upright. His mouth feels dry and everything aches but he can do this. "It's all right. I can take it."

There's a bruise on Vayne's cheekbone and still a smudge of blood on his chin, and what he says is, "They've hurt you enough."

"To endure this much and fail because you doubted my capacity would hurt far more," Larsa says gently. "Please, let's finish this."

"The little prince knows what he's about," one of the other Rozarrians says. "Have him put that silver tongue to use."

The general motions to the soldiers holding Vayne and they haul him over, hiking up the hem of his shirt so that when someone pushes Larsa down over the pedestal again he's barely a hair's breadth away from Vayne's cock. It's not hard, and he prays his unpracticed mouth will be enough to remedy that.

When his tongue first touches the soft skin of it Vayne shudders, sucking in an audible breath as though this shakes him far more than anything the soldiers have done. Well. They are alike in that. Larsa licks his lips nervously and then wraps them around the head of his brother's cock, closing his eyes as if he could shut out all the horrible circumstances surrounding this moment.

He has always loved his brother more than is seemly. He has long hoped that he could grow into a man that Vayne would hold in equally high esteem, but this was never how he pictured demonstrating his mettle. He feels clumsy as he works his lips and tongue around the tender flesh in his mouth, doing his best to mimic the motions of sex with only the most inadequate examples to go by. But it seems to be working; Vayne's cock is swelling and stiffening on his tongue, growing thick enough that he has to stretch his jaw wide, lengthening until he can fit only a fraction of it in his mouth.

When the soldiers pull Vayne away, a little sound of dismayed surprise escapes Larsa's throat before he can help himself. That earns him more laughter, and a few comments he doesn't even need to translate to guess the subject of. He tells himself he doesn't care. He's doing what they've forced him to do, and if sucking his brother's cock is the first of their demands to stir any heat in his own blood—that says more of their behavior than his.

They drag Vayne around behind him to take the place of the soldiers who raped him before. Larsa twists, looking back over his shoulder awkwardly. "No matter what, I love you," he says. Vayne nods as the soldiers push him into position; he won't say it in front of people like this, but that's fine.

Larsa's rim is tender and raw from the hours of earlier use, but between his spit and the soldiers' seed the friction is at least eased. Vayne's cock slides into his ass slowly and steadily and the pain is the least important thing. The fullness that felt like an invasion before is no hardship now; Vayne's cock presses deep enough to push the breath from him and his own untouched cock twitches.

Vayne doesn't pull back and thrust hard the way the soldiers tended to; instead he stays buried deep and rocks there, a shifting pressure that makes Larsa's breath come short and his cock start to stiffen. A few times one of the soldiers struck some nerve inside him that felt uncomfortably intense, an instant of raw sensation that his body struggled to accept. Now the weight of Vayne's cock rubs relentlessly against that same nerve and instead of being unpleasant it draws a band of desire tight between Larsa's hips, makes him push back to demand more pressure whenever it eases.

The Rozarrian soldiers are jeering, entertained by their apparent degeneracy, as though it's in any way fair to fault them for cooperating with the demands of their conquerors. Larsa does his best to shut them out, to focus only on Vayne, who is here sharing the ordeal with him and doing what he can to make it easier. The way Vayne takes him feels so much better, so maddeningly arousing, it may as well be a different act altogether. His thighs tremble as he tries to offer himself up, and the sounds he muffles against his shoulder are prompted by desire, not pain.

And even though he's felt the building of the tension, even though he'd begun to crave it, when Larsa reaches a climax like that it catches him by surprise: the roaring in his ears blocks out the rest of the world and all that matters is Vayne's cock, spearing him through, the axis around which he falls apart.

Vayne swears softly, fervently, in a tone that Larsa wants to believe is awe. "Bear with me but a moment," he says, urgent as Larsa has never heard him, and Larsa nods; it's a new kind of discomfort to be taken in the wake of his own climax but he would bear far worse for Vayne. And it is as brief as he was promised—only another dozen jarring thrusts before Vayne shudders behind him and pulses inside him and then goes still.

"Unmanned and unfit," the general says, not to them but to what remains of the audience, those Archadians so perverse or so bitter that this spectacle held their attention. "And by their public demonstration thereof, removed from the favor of gods and men."

_But not each other_, Larsa thinks. They still have each other. Some of the soldiers come to pull them apart and march them up to stand facing the general as he finishes his ritual speech proclaiming the end of their nobility. 

He turns to them."Vayne Carudas Solidor. Larsa Ferrinas Solidor. The Empire of Rozarria accepts your surrender."

Vayne bows to him, surprisingly gracefully for all that's happened. "Treat Archadia well, general. She has much worth cherishing."

And when the soldiers are leading them away, back inside the palace so they might leave without an audience to come after them—then Vayne adds, softly and in an ancient high Archadian, "Keep her well until we take her back."

Larsa's heart soars. They've made it through this ordeal. They still have each other. And they won't accept defeat.


End file.
